


Perspectives~Chapter Three~Part One: Did It All For You

by PhoenixDragon



Series: Perspectives [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Gen, Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...</p></blockquote>





	Perspectives~Chapter Three~Part One: Did It All For You

**  
' **Did It All For You** '   
**

  
_You're such an inspiration for the ways that I would never, ever choose to be - Oh so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you_ **- A Perfect Circle**  


_"Remember what I taught you - remember what Dad taught you-"_

No, Dean, I can't - you never taught me how to let go, just the opposite. You taught me to hold on, tight, tight, tight and never _let go - never let them win._

He'd never say it.

He could feel it stick in his throat, Dean's eyes bleeding deep calm and love - such love and he couldn't take it. The green glowed deep within, keeping all the secrets he could never share - and here soon...

Here soon he'd never share them ever - and this was not how it was suppose to go! He could save him - turn the clock back, just a few hours, a few days _and he'd make it happen! He could do_ anything _\- Dean said so and Dean never lies, not to him anyway, not about things that were important._

He held onto the bone handle of the knife, knuckles white with the force of his hold, knowing that here within seconds, they were going to rush that door and make their own miracles, like they always have - and he could save Dean and they'd never, ever die, never and Dean wouldn't have that Look, that look like he was bleeding, like he was dying already and -

the claw marks crawled up to his throat, the deep green that meant safety and love and big brother and **DEAN** bleeding away to ashy grey and then nothing - like a light-switch had been thrown and now Dean didn't exist. Almost as if he had _never_ existed and that wasn't right, it wasn't fair, because he was _here_ , here in his arms and he was still warm, he was still warm so Sam could get him back. He waited, see? He **waited** , and -

 _\- just waiting for them to come, to come and bleed him and take him away from him and dammit, that couldn't happen!_

"Dean," he could hear the sob in his voice and he tried to choke it back, but Dean was looking at him, that soft sadness and 'I'm sorry' and 'It'll be okay' and 'Sammy' all rolled into one the way he does, the way he always _does and how can he live without that? How can he live without someone telling him five thousand things in one look like only Dean can, how can he live without that weight, that warmth that was just for him - because he held no delusions, Dean only breathed because he existed and now...now because he existed he wouldn't breathe at all. And how is that suppose to make sense in the grand scheme of things? How is any of this supposed to make sense?_

So he gripped that knife, held it tight while Dean filled him with strength and calm through his eyes and those eyes had never lied to him before but they were doing it now, because underneath...

Underneath. __

Fear and horror and pain and more fear - so overwhelming, Sam dropped his eyes away because he'd never let him see, never let him share _and damn it all the damned clock has gotten to its third tone and it's like a cruel joke that Lilith would find the_ one _house that could chime Dean's seconds away, like they didn't matter, like it made no difference and -_

washes of deep maroon, the kind that only comes from close to the heart. That thick, rich oxygenated blood that jets and froths on its way out and its splashed up to his chin, the gore-streaked ruin of Dean's chest making the deep gash across his upper leg look like a mere flesh-wound - and he died with a blank look on his face, like it didn't matter, it didn't _hurt_ and his fucking eyes are lying again, because he had **_screamed_** and his big brother _never_ screamed like that. But he was so proud because Dean was so strong, he tried to get away - almost did because that's what Dean _does_ , he lives to fight another day and the ceiling bears no witness to the deep, lethal carnage the Hounds inflicted on him because they were standing _over_ him and Sam could have almost counted how many there were and there were a _lot_ because Dean was so damned **strong** , he was **_fierce_** \- and his death was so much slower and more agonizing because he couldn't let go and he _looked_ at him - looked at him before he died, as if he needed to see that _he_ was okay, to get permission to be shredded to pieces before Sam's eyes and he never granted it because he _didn't_ have permission and it wasn't okay! He couldn't just _die_ , he was _**Dean**_ , he was father and big brother and mother and best friend and -

 _"Sam..."_

But that wasn't right, Dean didn't speak to him after that twelfth chime, not directly, anyway - he had rolled his lower lip, quirking that smile that was a mere shadow of all the ones before it and had moved _, moved faster than Sam had ever dreamed and he had taken his bag of goofer dust out and -_

"Sam _-" More of a hiss than a name and he couldn't look, he_ couldn't _because Dean would be standing, his insides falling to his outsides and he couldn't see that, he couldn't look at that - not again. He couldn't see that his brother had lived after all, a shuffling corpse that only brought testimony to Dean's strength, that he had_ lived _, that he would crawl out of his own grave and he would never,_ ever _die and where that had only brought joy and love and a fierce sense of_ right _before, now brought pain and fear and a mewling need to crawl into his_ own _grave and scream and scream and scream and hope he never woke up again._

He looked down at the (curse) knife, sure that it would be missing, that all was right (and wrong) with the world and Dean would be in Hell and that he would forever hear his name screamed at the end of long (hooks) chains under the fierce, lightening thick, green-black of a sky that acted like a mirror of Dean's eyes -

'How do I know this _?!'_

\- and when he looked _, when he saw what he held, he could only gasp and shudder, the object that once held so many ties, so much love, so much hope, so many truths and all that he could say in one gesture of true familial love gleamed at him like a coiled snake ready to bite and it was horrifying that such a small thing could bring so much terror and pain -_

"Sssaaaamm..."

He couldn't look. The amulet's little god held him in a piercing gaze, the stippling of purple-red across its lips like a sacrifice, the Ultimate sacrifice and it still wasn't enough - it was never _enough because now the Hounds would burst in and rip and tear and gnaw Dean until he was forced to leave, until he was forced to_ DIE _and he couldn't look up at the Thing standing so close beside him, the stench of rot and dirt and old blood caking the inside of his nose, his stomach curling in protest at the sheer mockery of this Thing that would look like his brother, that would_ dare _to look like his brother -_

Like the Thing that dared to look like him now, smelled of him, felt like him, smiled and laughed like him - but Its eyes lied all the time, all the fucking _time_ and he was still so dead inside, so fucking dead and that flare of pain in his back that had bit down when the clock first chimed his brother's End _still_ fucking hurt - so this Liar, this Copy, this Thing that breathed beside him now couldn't be Dean because his eyes lied all the time and were blank and never told him five thousand things anymore and -

 _It was reaching for him, reaching to take back what belonged to It, what Sam had robbed It's corpse of and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't let go because it was dead, he was alive and this amulet was_ everything _\- this amulet was **Dean** and he wasn't going to give it/him up without a fight. But he knew, deep down in his bones that It would touch him and he wouldn't be able to fight - he _ would _die and the white heat that sang between his shoulder blades would spread until his chest exploded from the terrific fire and pressure and he'd be like Dean, shredded, torn apart, his insides on his outsides and **ohgodpleasenodon'ttouchme** \- !!_

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **12:13PM**

Sam gasped awake, the sound of his heart thudding in his ears overlaid by the scratchy hiss of the hotel room's heater kicking off. He twisted his torso off the bed, his upper body coming away easily, too easily as he saw there were no sheets or blankets tangled in the length of his legs. He didn't understand for a moment why this confused him, then he remembered Dean and Dean being back home and Dean's propensity, even when half soused and only half-Dean as he so often was here of late (almost like he was too afraid to be _Dean_ ) to mother hen him most to death whether it was required or not.

Maybe not this time?

In the wake of his nightmare - and boy, it had been awhile since he'd had _that_ one - he wondered, only for a split second, if Dean really was alive or if he dreamed him coming back. It wouldn't be the first time that was for sure.

But as the room cooled by mere degrees, his arms pimpling in the stillness of the air, the past month came rushing back to him, leaving him gasping for a whole 'nother reason even as his heart slowed back to normal rhythm, head clearing, thoughts deweaving in that slow way they had after a bad dream, like they were reluctant to let go of the pain, the uncertainty such dreams left behind.

He let his gaze travel the room and though nothing seemed out of place, there was still the feeling of something missing, something that wasn't quite where it should be. He yawned, caught momentarily off guard by it and swiped a hand through his bangs, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and sitting up, one arm still stretched above his head as a he gawped in surprise at the empty, unused bed beside him.

' _I could have sworn..._ '

"Dean?" he called softly, almost afraid to disturb the stillness of the room, even as that stillness unsettled him. His older brother, even at his worst, sick or injured, never failed to leave an impression, no matter where they were, his presence just seemed to fill everything. He wasn't the only one who noticed it, either - Dad had often laughingly joked that they needed to leave Dean behind so he wouldn't 'attract attention' on their hunts.

' _Damn kid just can't go unnoticed,_ ' John would pretend to grumble, and would laugh when Dean protested in his usual Deanish fashion (half dismay, half arrogant snark), leaving Sam rolling his eyes and struggling not to laugh himself.

He quirked his mouth in amusement, unsure why this particular memory had chosen to surface, but for once the sting of his father's absence was not tainted with exasperation as it usually was. It was a good feeling, though it was one that didn't last as he hauled himself out of bed, noting that the bathroom door was open, light off, the room door was locked as he had left it and there was no sign that Dean had ever been there at all, much less a few hours ago.

He caught himself before he could call for his brother again and scrubbed at the back of his neck, staring at Dean's bed as if it held all the answers. All that stared back was an empty, neatly made bed that had a Dean-shaped dent where he had laid down, jacket slung over his shoulder while Sam had snuck out to -

' _Best to not think of that,_ ' an inner voice whispered, old-maidish and superstitious even in his own head.

Sam took a deep breath, tearing his eyes away from the rumpled pristineness (wrong in so many ways) of Dean's side of the room, almost relieved when his bladder insisted that he was awake and there were other things that needed taking care of. He shuffled into the bathroom to pee, not even bothering with the light and shuffled out when done, sure that coffee and maybe a bagel would solve everything. Usually did, in most cases - especially if he brought back extra to toss in his older brother's direction (like meat for an enraged tiger). He could be counted to focus on the food first and the ass-whupping later - well, most of the time. And a full stomach and a bellyful of coffee made for a more reasonable Dean in the long run - win/win all around.

He jotted a note on the hotel stationary in case Dean came back and found the room empty, making sure he had his key on him when he headed for the door, though he was sure (knowing his luck) that Dean would have the damned thing standing wide open and waiting for him, all set to chew some ass before he could even unload the goodies from his hands. He quirked a sour smile at that thought and let the door sweep shut behind him, blinking in the brightness of the afternoon sun, startled when he saw the Impala was still sitting almost directly in front of their room as she had been a mere few hours before, her shape dark and hulking even under the serene wash of midday light.

He blinked again and tore his eyes away from her, an uneasiness settling in his gut even as his mind came up with a million and one reasons for Dean to have left her behind while he went and blew off steam somewhere. Drunken and disorderly was usually high on the list - and while that didn't thrill Sam to pieces, it was a good enough reason to make the knot between his shoulders loosen a little as he double-checked the lock on the hotel's door. For an odd moment (some feeling he couldn't define), he found his eyes drawn to the edge of the parking lot, almost sure for a split second that he saw Dean staring back at him, his shadow swallowing him up, dark shape of something familiar slung over one shoulder - but just as fast as it had come the image faded, leaving him chilled and slightly shaken as he turned in the opposing direction, heading towards the convenience store and liquid salvation. No sooner had the image faded than he had dismissed it, chalking it up to being tired and still half-asleep.

Several hours, half a dozen phone calls and one shocking discovery later, it was that image that would haunt him as he made a beeline for the Impala, keys rattling in his fingers as he went to unlock her, eyes straying to that same spot all over again. He didn't see him, didn't see the vision (if that's what it was) again, but it was forever burned into his memory - his brother standing by the side of the road, looking back at him, a dark, familiar shape (his duffle) slung over one shoulder, eyes shadowed and blank as he gazed through him.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _There were few questions about the necklace that Dean had suddenly acquired that winter._

Dad had asked once where he had gotten it and Dean's answer was so vague he thought his eldest son had stolen it, which Dean and his ever present guilt had let him think. Technically, as far as Dean was concerned, he had _stolen it - from Dad, of all people - but Sam never saw it that way._

Bobby just mixed up who it actually belonged to.

Sam liked to think it was a gift just from him, but he knew he had Bobby to thank for the way his brother's eyes had lit up, the way he had stammered his thanks as he put it on, like it was the greatest thing he had ever seen, the best present he could ever ask for - and that both warmed and elated Sammy, even as it left him sad. His brother should have had lots of nice things, lots of reminders that he was loved, needed, wanted - but that was all that Sam had to give - and it wasn't even his to give in the first place.

But children don't let such distinctions get in the way of their happiness, so he kept that joy close to his heart, that he had made his brother smile, that he had touched him in such a small way, but in one that left such a huge impact. As far as he knew, Dean never took the damned thing off (well, voluntarily) and it later came to define his brother, reminded him of who Dean was, who he always would be -

So when he died...

When he died, Sam took it off for him, wore it close to his own heart and thus carried his brother with him everywhere. It was only fair and right, after all Dean died carrying Sam, keeping him near, watching over him, like he'd done all their lives. And when he was no more he carried Sam Downstairs with him, carried him even on his last breath and it only seemed right to keep part of him safe and close to his heart where Dean always belonged, where he would _always belong._

Love always called to love. And so many years ago, he never thought that the love he gave to his brother on that quiet Christmas morning would leave his arms so empty in a field in Illinois almost seventeen years later, his brother's love for him returned a hundred fold. He didn't cry when he pulled the necklace on over his head and walked away to the waiting Impala. He didn't cry when he went to sleep that night every muscle screaming in protest from the strain he had put his body through, digging his brother's grave. He didn't cry when he put that same town in the rear-view mirror less than twelve hours later, the nose of Dean's beloved Chevy pointed towards Bobby's house, the feeling that of a whipped dog, tucking its tail between its legs to scurry on home.

It took awhile, but when he finally could take a deep breath enough to shed tears, it had been over a month. The whiskey bottle he had been nursing for the past two hours was almost nursed away and the light from the broken window on a nearby junker caught on the amulet around his neck, making it almost sing with a diffused shimmer against it's brass surface. He froze, waiting for his brother to appear, to take back what belonged to him - to come back home where he belonged, even if home was nothing more than a car that was older than dirt itself and a younger brother who was too drunk to stand on his own.

Sammy... __

He could almost hear him. He could almost hear the deep rumble of his voice which called his name, said it was all okay and that he was HERE for him in just that one word and he found himself on his knees in front of his brother's car (never his, always Dean's) weeping, deep silent sobs that shook him so hard he thought he would be sick. He clung to the side of her fender, not sure if he wanted to stand up or just lay down and die, but sure that he was going to come apart if he didn't stop crying these endless tears that wouldn't solve anything - but most certainly would never bring his brother back to him.

"You stupid fuck _. You stupid..._ stupid _fucking_ asshole _! Why didn't you just_ leave _me there? Why did you_ do _this to me?!" he had screamed, fist wrapped around the amulet to rip it off and throw it amongst the glittering dead hulks that surrounded him. But he never did. He never did rip it off and declare his own love for his brother cheap and fleeting. Just as he never declared Dean's love in return cheap and fleeting - he knew the answer, he had always known. Whether or not he liked that answer really wasn't the point, was it?_

He threw the whiskey bottle instead, just for the satisfaction of having something to throw and grinned in malice when he heard it thunk off of something metallic and unmoving, his arm aching with the sudden movement even as his other fist tightened down on the godhead, the horns biting into the calluses on his palm. He fell, exhausted, against the side of the Impala, motionless until the light broke over the horizon, bringing the calls of birds back to the world even as Bobby Singer came looking for him, gaze worried even as his voice was rough. Looked like Bobby had had a date with the bottle as well, his eyes fuzzy and pained as he led Sam back to the house, the promise of breakfast falling from lips that had long gone numb.

It was too much for the both of them, Sam realized then. They were both dancing on the razor of pain - and he just didn't have the strength, the ability, the need _to make it better for Bobby, when he couldn't even make it better for himself. He just wasn't Dean - and maybe...maybe that was the problem._

He left that night, when Bobby was asleep, and didn't look back, his eyes ahead even as he constantly looked behind. He didn't know if leaving was right, he didn't know of it was wrong - he just knew he needed to get away before their combined pain killed him, before it killed Bobby. If the amulet disapproved it never said - its gaze as serene and empty as when Sammy had first given it to Dean on that one Christmas morning over seventeen years ago, leading them down this path of love that spoke of nothing but death, in the end.

But the amulet had nothing to say on that, either.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **3:17PM**

It would be easy for anyone who didn't know them to say he had over-reacted.

After it all, it was only three hours ago he had woken up from a horrible nightmare to discover his brother gone - to leap to conclusions as he'd had would have been foolhardy if he had been dealing with anyone else but Dean.

But it was _Dean_. A little quieter, a little more withdrawn and haunted (and after Dean's little stint Downstairs, Sam realised he was damned lucky to not get a raving lunatic back for a brother) - but no matter what condition, no matter how he had changed, he was still Dean.

And Dean wasn't in the habit of turning off his phone, leaving for almost twelve hours and taking everything but the Impala with him.

No matter what had happened over those four long months he was in Hell, he was still fundamentally _Dean_.

Dean coped by gambling for enough cash-flow to get them to the next town, the next hunt. He coped by yelling, throwing a punch and playing the same five albums too loudly over and over. He coped by pulling pranks, playing the big brother card, eating too much greasy roadside food and griping about so called 'geeky-shit' like research when forced to sit still for long stretches. He hovered, hounded, bitched, fussed and drove Sam crazy. He was a drinker, a fighter and a lover of about damned near anything with tits, long hair and a stripper name. He was obnoxious, lazy at times, sly, fast on his feet, an intuitive hunter and an all around loud-mouthed pain in the ass. All of these things described Dean - it was only the tip of the ice-burg, but it came close.

What these things _didn't_ described was what Dean wasn't. Dean wasn't a coward, he wasn't a quitter and he wasn't a runner. Dean didn't walk out on his family. Dean watched as his family walked out on him, time and again - but he never called them on it, never got angry about it, never stood up for himself - all of which drove Sam to distraction when he'd had too much to drink, too little sleep and too much heartache.

Dean just kept mute, kept driving, kept flirting, eating, drinking and taking down as many evil sons-of-bitches as he could.

But everyone had a breaking point. Even his brother it seemed. Now...now the tables were turned and he had to admit, he didn't like the taste of ashes in his mouth when it was his turn to choke on them. It tasted too much like he had lost before the battle even started - and being a Winchester, well...that just didn't sit too kindly with him. He knew when he walked back in with the extra coffee (black, two sugars) and the extra bagel (plain, strawberry jam in a little packet) that Dean wasn't coming back. He knew that he hadn't been there quite awhile, shoot guessed that Dean hadn't been there since before he had staggered through the door that morning, headache still spiking away in the middle of his skull. That his older brother had probably beat feet long before (Ron, Reggie, Reynold?) had been hauled away by the emergency crew at the ER.

The room just smelled/felt/tasted as off as when he had first left to go get breakfast - even more so since he had shuffled through arms ladened with his peace offering. It reeked of cold and emptiness - and that just wasn't possible if Dean had been in a motel room longer than five minutes. The room would hum with frenetic energy, the odor of soap, gun oil, old spice and that scent that was uniquely Dean permeating the very air in a manner of mere minutes, Dean's personality soaking into the walls the moment he stepped foot into the room - making it fit him, making it his - if only for a little while. That signature, that presence stuck everywhere they stayed at, so even if Dean stomped out to 'get a drink' and leave Sam stewing over something they'd fought about, he still slept in the aura of Dean, safe in the knowledge that his brother would be back, was always there - was always _Dean_.

This was like walking into a hotel room after he was gone. The very air was voided, empty and raw - waiting for something to come and overwhelm it. It sang of something missing and try as he might, Sam could not ignore it. He jittered, thumped his foot against the floor and paced for a whole fifteen minutes before hauling out the laptop, his own coffee now lukewarm going on chilled as he mapped out the town, local hot-spots, police stations and well...he already knew where the hospital was. It was only another five before he calculated the time it would take to get to the nearest bar (too far) or the police station (too close) and started making phone calls - calm at first, inquiring - but increasingly tense and agitated as the next half hour had worn on. No one had seen him, he hadn't been picked up by the police, the hospital hadn't admitted or attended anyone with his description and the nearest diner hadn't had a customer fitting his likeness at all today. It didn't take long to exhaust all the local possibilities and an even shorter time to widen the net and still find zilch.

By the time an hour had passed, he was frantic. Sam knew that technically, he was being irrational. He knew that on a scale of one to ten he was coming out loony - but he had just gotten Dean back from Hell, so he felt he had an excuse. He had just gotten his brother back and his gut was telling him he had lost him just as quick, as much time as it took to snap your fingers - and Dean had vanished. He berated himself for not trying to talk to Dean before going to bed - 'course, if Dean had left before then, it would have been a moot point - but he would have had a fighting chance to catch him before it all went sideways like this. Then he told himself that he was out of practice dealing with his brother, that he couldn't have seen this coming and while that was all true - he also knew he hadn't wanted to. Fuck, he couldn't even look Dean in the face without seeing failure - and he was so busy looking away, he missed the most important thing: Dean was back. Dean was Home.

And him? He was a fucking moron.

So yeah, he knew. His gut knew, his _heart_ fucking knew Dean was gone - his brain was just slow to wrap around it. After all - Dean wasn't the one who Did-The-Leaving. Dean was always the One-Who-Was-Left. Funny how much that ached and enraged all at once. Funny how bad it hurt when you got a nasty dose of your own medicine. Sam had to say he wasn't keen on the taste - but he manned up, took a deep breath and did the last thing he ever wanted to do.

He called Bobby. And yeah - that was a fucking giggle of a phone-call right there.

It was odd how Dean didn't lean on others, didn't need, want or ask for help, unless it came to hunting down his family - then he was the asshole you found punching speed-dial till his fingers bled. But when it came to Sam hunting down his family, it was just the opposite. Sam (also known as Samantha Winchester, famous for 'let's go ask that nice couple for directions' - and getting mocked for it) dug in his heels and left that as the last resort. But it didn't discount the instant relief he felt at hearing Bobby's voice, an almost Pavlovian response that told him it was going to be okay now, that it was all fixable.

Until Bobby essentially laid out for him that this was like slapping a butterfly bandage on a gaping head wound.

It wasn't Bobby's fault and he knew that. _Rationally_ , he knew that - but calm and rational seemed to be on vacation. Shit, for all Sam knew they hitched a ride with Dean straight to Nowheresville. Then...then he had found the Impala's keys and things had gotten... _fuzzy_...after that. He remembered losing his proverbial shit, then Bobby saying he had called his brother earlier, losing his shit some more, getting his ass handed to him in five words or less by Uncle Bobby - then getting a location of where Dean might be at (stress on the 'might').

If they got there in time.

If.

A word that technically didn't exist. It was the most abused and least understood word in the English language. It was such a small word, but one that had enough impact to flatten whole civilizations and turn history on its axis.

Sam hated that word. IF. It meant potential disaster, failure and 'no' all in one. When Dean used it (all throughout Sam's rocky childhood up until he crawled out of his own grave) it had always meant 'Not now', 'Maybe one day' and 'Not while I still breathe, bitch'. It was the word that drove him to Stanford and a new life and one that had dragged him back, kicking and screaming for answers when Jessica had died.

It was a stupid answer and one of the most important words ever designed.

He realized he was slipping, sliding back into the horrible numbness that had overtaken him when Dean had died -

 _Your brother is Downstairs doing the Hellfire Rumba..._

\- and his brain had finally caught onto the fact that the driver's seat had only him to man it, that the seat beside him was forever going to remain empty. His brain understood that (eventually) even processed it as actual information - and his heart had frozen. He had lost a lot of time to Jim Beam and Wild Turkey (Kentucky's Finest Bourbon!) before losing even more time to the arms of Ruby and the pull of his powers.

It had good, using his powers - it felt _right_ , even as it felt all kinds of wrong. He knew he had made a promise, but even as he cringed inside from breaking that promise to Dean, defying his brother's dying wish - there was that nasty spark of satisfaction, too. Like he was thumbing his nose at Dean and his damned dying wishes. Almost a 'Nahh-nahh - see? None of this would have happened if you hadn't sold yourself to Hell, asshat!' type of spite that had somehow taken root deep inside his soul, and no manner of good-will, of good intentions could completely erase that little dark spark of hate and hurt.

So he used it. He used all that hate, all that anger, all that crippling hurt and deep, deep loneliness and fear to fight those who had taken his brother from him - to send them back where they had come from (never thinking that they just might go take out their own rage on the very person he was taking vengeance for). He honed and wielded this force that was only growing in strength with one sole purpose - to find and save his brother.

And lo and behold, here comes Dean, out of his grave and back into his own meatsuit - saving himself (okay, with some major help from Above) when Sam wasn't fast enough on the draw. It's not that he wasn't grateful - he had Dean back, breathing, fighting and being a warm solid presence again. But Dean had been changed, he was hardly the man that had raised Sam from infancy - and while that scared him, leaving him lost and unsure, it also enraged him. The so-called Powers That Be saw fit to raise Dean only after he had been sentenced to (Forever) four months Way Down South - but they couldn't have been moved to _prevent_ it? That confused him, it pissed him off and it scared him. There were so few answers to the endless questions that bubbled within him (why was he allowed to sell his soul, why didn't Heaven stop the Hellhounds, why is Dean so different and yet the same - why, why, why?) and it looked as if he never would get an answer from either Heaven or Hell.

And certainly not from Dean himself. Seemed there was a whole new side to his brother that Sam had never seen, had never _wanted_ to see. The only puzzling question that was left behind by Dean's empty seat and lukewarm trail was this - was Dean capable of walking away before, of running from him? Or was this just another fallout from his tour of duty in Satan's realm?

Of course, all these questions weren't going to bring back the last forty-five minutes of blind driving. They wouldn't bring back the moments that passed since he hung up the phone with Bobby (no longer hearing the conversation after the address was given), packed up his duffle and stared long and long across the parking lot, awaiting that vision of his brother before climbing into the car and peeling out of the parking space, sure that he was making the biggest mistake ever by leaving the last place he had seen Dean alive and well (warehouse not withstanding) nothing more than a dwindling mirage in the Impala's rear-view mirror.

And no wondering, pondering and recriminations were going to fill that empty passenger seat - or rewind the clock back to more than twelve hours ago and undo what had been done.

What he had done.

He was pulling over before he actively registered he was doing so, his shoulders shaking even as he fought the blur that ran across his vision, the car too quiet, too Deanless for him to stop himself. Fear, anger and bitterness clogged his throat as he tried to breath through the ache in his chest, willing the tears to not fall.

Dean wasn't dead, he was just...lost for a moment. A moment in time, that was all, just a moment.

Sam wasn't going to fail him again.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _When Dean showed up on his doorstep, he didn't know whether he was happy or pissed._

He had finally done it, he had gotten away and made a life for himself and his old life caught up with him just that quick. Two weeks - less than two weeks and here was his brother, coming to drag him home again.

Okay, yeah - he was squatting in an abandoned trailer with a dog that he had found wandering around outside looking as starved and lonely as he was - but he was doing okay for himself. Well, as okay as could be expected for a fourteen year old runaway on his own for the first time - actually better than most, because he had the skills and know-how to take care of himself. And he was away from Dad and his endless quest for vengeance, his endless drills and orders and moving from place to place. He was away from the never-ending family mission of 'Saving people, hunting things' - the whole family business crap. He had a place of his own, money in his pocket from his various wheeling and dealings around town and the dog he always wanted. Never mind he was squatting like they always did, never mind he got the cash from what he had learned from his Dad and Dean and their life on the road - it was all his. And he was finally, finally on his own.

Okay, yeah - he missed Dean, he missed his brother like a deep wound that ached if you moved wrong - but Dean would never leave Dad, never abandon the family business, so...

He had to go on without him.

He felt bad about how he left, but it being the middle of summer with no school, no real friends he could escape to and skip out on without Dean following, it was the only way. He had already prepacked his belongings before dinner and all that was left was just waiting until the house was quiet and still, slipping out of the window he had spent the last two days WD-40ing so that it raised and lowered without a sound. After that it was a cakewalk, really. He hopped a bus with a prepaid ticket and a smooth lie about being sent to his Grandma's to live (alcoholic parents, what are you gonna do?) and no one took a second look at him as he rode away two states over to Flagstaff, Arizona.

It was amazingly easy, amazingly fast how it all happened - and it didn't take too long for him to find a nice, quiet place just outside the main city to settle down in. Two days later he came across Bones while waiting for the pizza guy to show up and his 'Life after Dad' was complete. He had already shown his face around the nearest school, getting set up for the fall - when Dean knocked on his door.

Damn Dean and his damn 'saving Sammy from himself' crap.

He was startled, to say the least. He had covered his tracks pretty well - but he should have known better. If anyone was going to find him, it would be Dean. His brother just couldn't leave well enough alone, he didn't know how - and deep inside he knew this wouldn't last, he knew Dean would catch up to him - it was all just a matter of when.

And now here he was, larger than life and twice as real, though strangely deflated and defeated looking on his doorstep.

That look, the strange aura Dean carried with him forced him to back up a step, all surprise, anger and righteous indignation draining away. He expected (if Dean did show, which he was hoping he wouldn't, not for a long time anyway) for his brother to be angry, for him to be all flying fists and rage and self righteousness. He expected Dad to be right behind him, dark eyes smoldering, jaw set and face blank - but it seemed that Dean came alone and that his brother had left all his anger somewhere else. It staggered him, Dean's lack of fire and pissiness, he looked...scared - and that was enough to send Sam retreating to the couch, body folding in midair until his ass hit the worn cushion beneath.

Dean hesitated in the doorway, that look of fear shadowing his eyes slowly fading as he took in his surroundings, from the rinky-dinky TV set with bad reception (unless you moved the rabbit ears just-so) to the peeling wallpaper to the busted couch Sam was sitting on. He looked around and fidgeted in the doorway, jumping when Bones barreled out of the back bedroom, barking in joyous greeting at the stranger on Sam's porch.

Yeah, Bones made a poor watchdog - but a great pet, which was all Sam wanted. All of this was what he had wanted - and now it was going to get taken away again. It was too soon, he had just gotten comfortable - and Dean was going to take it all away and drag him back to the life he didn't want, to the home he had no place in. That was enough to get the shaky, scared uncertainty that had taken root in the pit of his stomach to dissipate and the anger to take hold again.

How did he dare to show up here? To haul him back to that horrible life that was just going to get them all killed in the end? How could Dean do that and just say he cared for him, that he was just watching out for him, when he was coming to take him back to such an awful existence? It wasn't living, it wasn't normal _\- and it was so far from what he wanted, from what he had planned for himself, it really wasn't funny. He didn't want to look on while Dean died on his Dad's watch, doing what he was told, never questioning, always obeying. He didn't want to be there when it all came crashing down around their ears, mission ended with an unfortunate accident, or a misstep that got one or_ all _of them maimed or killed._

He didn't belong with them, he never did _\- so why couldn't they just leave him alone?_

But Dean just stood there, eyes hollow and dull as he took in Sam's home, his daydreams and wishes come to life. He looked out of place, so dark, solid and surreal against the arid, desert backdrop - like a fallen angel displaced on the surface of the world, that Sam actually felt awkward, antsy - which only made him angry all over again.

"Why are you here, Dean?" His voice squeaked on his brother's name and he could feel his face redden in embarrassment. He bit off any other words that formed on his tongue, realizing that anything else said would just give Dean more of an opening for treating him like a little kid. He wasn't five anymore, he wasn't Sammy anymore - he just wanted to be left alone, to have normal - his brother knew that, should have _known that. It was important, more important than anything else._

Dean startled again at the sound of his name, not even seeing Bones as the dog whuffled around his feet, his hands useless and empty at his sides as eyes found Sam's, his mouth a thin white line as he looked at and through him. Sam shivered in the heat blasting from the open doorway, but found he didn't have the voice to tell Dean to come in and shut the door, sit down - anything, anything at all - because he didn't know this guy, he didn't know the look in his eyes or how he was standing so still. His anger had dried up again and the emotion that welled up in its place was fear and sadness - he was looking into the future, Dean's _future and it was like a shock of cold water down his back. He didn't like this feeling, he didn't like this 'knowing' at all - it left him breathless and distant inside his own skin - and why wasn't he fucking_ moving _? Why didn't he say something?_

"Dean -" His voice cracked again, but he didn't care at all this time. He was still angry, still pissed at having his happy place invaded, having all that he had fought for yanked out from under him again, but he was also afraid. For Sam right now, he realized that something had happened deep inside, was still happening - and that he shouldn't be feeling this fear, that he shouldn't be seeing Dean the way he looked now and feel that terror, that ache that screamed of wrong and hollow and voided. He knew that something had changed - and that if Dean had come five minutes earlier, or five minutes later - he wouldn't be feeling this, wouldn't be so aware of how the world tilted when he looked at his brother's face. He would have been whining and pissed and kicking and screaming as Dean dragged him out by force under the baking Arizona sun, childish petulance falling from his lips as his brother hauled him home, silent, silent and unmoving - and Sam would have never seen it.

He didn't want to see it now.

He longed for this terrible, adult feeling to fall away, to leave him fourteen and confused and angry all over again. Instead, he just felt sick and cold - his insides as empty and useless as Dean's hands as he stood in the doorway looking through him and seeing everything. After what seemed an eternity (but he rationally realized was just a few seconds) Dean took a breath, eyes unfocusing for a mere fraction and Sam was left to watch in a terrible awe as Dean's walls closed back in, the open rawness and wrongness that bled out of his soul through his eyes seeped away and he was left with just Dean again, weary, slightly pissed off and jittery - but all Dean. He wondered deep down if he had never seen Dean's soul because Dean had never allowed it, if his brother had kept himself hidden so well that he had always just assumed he knew him inside and out, leaving it at that, content that he had the whole package - and contemptuous because there wasn't much to that package.

And that only made him feel worse. Because if Dean kept himself wrapped that tight, this little slip spoke volumes, even to him - how tired, how scared and worried he had made his brother - and now...now he felt like shit. He should have known that skipping out the way he did was going to be hard on Dean - his brother was so wrapped up in him and his welfare he never took time to know himself all that well and from what little Sam had seen he figured he was worth knowing.

And that was yet another terrible revelation and one that he'd rather not have. He'd take being Sammy again, he'd take being Dean's pain in the ass little brother and not knowing that there was more to Dean than he thought previously. He wanted it to rewind back five minutes and take all this knowledge away - and in that moment, for that one short, split second, the childish petulance he had wished for rose up and choked him.

He wished Dean didn't exist.

And he saw by the flicker in Dean's eyes that he had seen that on his face - that he knew _\- and swallowed it back behind those walls that hid his soul._

He was mortified, angry all over again - but at himself this time. Dean didn't deserve that, certainly hadn't deserved to see it - to see it and just accept _it. And that one moment, that second was gone, wiped away with anger at himself and the screwed up mess his brother was that he could just accept that the child he had raised had wished him out of existence and keep looking at him and loving him - and it wasn't_ right _!_

"Sam." Tired, worried and relieved. And maybe, just maybe a hint of sadness. "C'mon, Sammy - time to come home."

Sam shook his head, tears welling in his eyes and stinging down his cheeks - but not for the reason Dean would expect. Not because he was caught and had to go home, though he was still angry and sad about that, too. It was because he couldn't step back and make this place happy again. Dean had tainted it with sorrow and knowing and wrongness - and there was no going back. He stood, suddenly tired himself and not willing to fight or dig in his heels and be little Sammy Stubborness as Dad had taken to calling him lately. He nodded once, turning towards the back of the trailer to get his stuff - the stuff he never unpacked because he knew, even then, that he wasn't staying. Not really. Not forever _._

He nodded and acknowledged that he was caught, his heart heavy with all that he wanted, all that he knew and all that could never be said - because Dean wouldn't hear him. There was only one thing to say, it was expected, it was known - and with all that he had found out in under two minutes, he knew it would hurt - but he had to say it anyway, keep the secret he saw in Dean's eyes held jealous and close to his heart.

"It's Sam."

And he retreated to the cool of the bedroom, Bones tagging close on his heels, past the shadow of his brother that loomed in the open door.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...


End file.
